Chapter 11 | Part 2

On the third day, Drusniel could stand.

His legs shook, and his magic remained a hollow absence in his chest, but he could stand. It felt like victory, even though it should have felt like baseline function.

Merrik led him out of the small stone house to see Wyrmreach properly for the first time.

The landscape was wrong in ways that defied easy description. Black sand stretched toward formations that looked like crystal but moved slightly when he wasn’t looking directly at them. Plants grew in colors that didn’t exist in Astalor—deep purples, sickly greens, shades of red that reminded him uncomfortably of blood. And on the horizon, the volcanic glow pulsed like a heartbeat, constant and ominous.

“The contested lands,” Merrik said, following his gaze. “Three lords fight over that territory. The volcano at the center is… valuable. Something about the soil, the resources. I don’t pretend to understand the politics.”

“Three lords?”

“Powers, you might call them. Warlords, rulers, whatever. They’ve divided Wyrmreach between them for as long as anyone remembers. The coast where we are—this is unclaimed territory. Too unstable, too dangerous for anyone to hold permanently.” Merrik shrugged. “Which makes it perfect for people like me.”

“People like you?”

Merrik’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Trader, once. A good one. Caravans, contracts, partners who thought profit meant protection.” He looked out over the black coast. “Wyrmreach took the caravans first. Then the partners. Then the idea that being useful kept anything safe.”

“And now?”

“Now I work smaller.” His voice stayed light, but something hard sat under it. “I find what the crossing leaves behind. I trade when trade is possible. I keep breathing when it isn’t.”

Drusniel studied the landscape with the analytical part of his mind that never quite stopped working. Volcanic activity meant geological instability. Crystal formations suggested mineral deposits, possibly magical. The contested lands implied resources worth fighting over and dangers worth avoiding.

“Which way is east?”

Merrik pointed. The direction led toward the volcanic glow, through terrain that looked increasingly hostile. “That way. Toward the contested lands and beyond. Szoravel is somewhere in the eastern territories—past the fighting, past the patrols. Not an easy journey.”

“And you know the way?”

“I know ways. Not the way.” Merrik’s expression was thoughtful. “The roads change here. Territory shifts. What was safe last week might be death this week. To get you where you’re going, we’d need information. Contacts. Resources.”

“We?”

“You’re in no condition to travel alone. And I—” He paused, something calculating flickering behind his eyes. “I have business that direction anyway. It would make sense to travel together. Safer for both of us.”

It was logical. Reasonable. Drusniel’s exhausted body agreed with every word. But something in the back of his mind was cataloging again—not cracks in walls this time, but questions. How many questions had Merrik asked about his abilities? About his destination? About why someone would cross the nightmare sea just to find a reclusive mage?

Twelve questions yesterday. Eleven the day before. Twenty-seven total, and only four about practical matters like food and rest.

“You’ve been very curious,” Drusniel said carefully. “About me.”

Merrik’s smile was easy, unconcerned. “Survival habit. The more I know about the people I help, the better I can help them. A drow who crossed the nightmare sea to find Szoravel—that’s unusual. Unusual people have unusual needs.”

“What kind of needs?”

“Protection, maybe. Guidance, certainly. And…” He hesitated, the pause feeling almost theatrical. “Discretion. The people who hunt survivors from the crossing—they pay well for information. I don’t sell to them, but others do. The less attention you draw, the safer you’ll be.”

Drusniel filed the information away. Hunters. Payment for information. A warning that felt more like a reminder of the danger than a genuine concern for his safety.

“Who hunts survivors?”

“Various parties. Slavers, mostly. Drow are rare here—exotic, valuable. A mage even more so.” Merrik’s voice was matter-of-fact, as if discussing trade goods rather than people. “The crossing is watched. Not always, not consistently, but enough that survivors learn to be careful.”

The word valuable echoed in Drusniel’s mind. Merrik had used it before. Some of them are valuable in ways they don’t realize.

“The sky,” Drusniel said, changing the subject. “Why is it always like this?”

“Always been that way. No true night, no true day. The light comes and goes, but it never fully darkens, never fully brightens.” Merrik shrugged. “Something about the barrier, they say. Something about what Wyrmreach is.”

“What is Wyrmreach?”

For a moment, something shifted in Merrik’s expression—not quite fear, but caution. “A question best asked of someone who knows more than I do. Szoravel might have answers. The lords certainly do, though they’re not the sharing type.”

Another non-answer. Another deflection. Drusniel’s mind catalogued it automatically, adding it to the growing list of things Merrik seemed unwilling to discuss directly.

“Rest another day,” Merrik said, steering him back toward the door. “Build your strength. Tomorrow we can start planning the journey.”

Rest another day. The phrase felt familiar, repeated. How many times had Merrik said it?

Drusniel counted.

Four times. Four delays, four suggestions to wait, four reasons not to move.

It should have felt like caution. Instead, it felt like strategy.

But his body was too weak to argue, and his magic too empty to resist. So he let Merrik guide him back to the shelter, and he ate the food that was offered, and he rested.

And he counted.

End of Chapter 11.2 —> 11.3: The Kind Man: The Questions